
Book-' h'y^llo' 



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Shadows 



We are but shadows 
Passing over the glass, 
Which mirrors time, 
We dim, uncertain, pass, 

Mere shadowings. 
Leaving behind us but the faintest trace 
On this great universe — and human race. 

Throughout the ages 

Have been birth and death, 

Toil, sorrow, shame — 

Which with the expiring breath 

Ended. 
Or else, per chance, began anew 
In some far distant world 

Beyond the stars. 



Fate 

But a turn of the wheel, 

'Tis fate — And our lives are shaped as clay. 

Forever made or marred, 

Or broken and thrown away. 

As the potter turns his wheel 

So the Arbiter of our fate. 

And it comes to woe or weal, 

To success or to checkmate ; 

So what matter the storm or sun. 

And what matter who we may be, 

We must go as our Fate has begun, 

We must reap though we may not see. 



Le Lion d' Aries— (Mistral) 

(Provencale dialect) 

Mais tout passo, tout alasso ; 
Estrambord deven 1 'ennui, 
A la nieue Ion jour fai placo 
Tan risie, que plouro aujourdhui. 

There are days of sun and shadow, 
Joys too great, become ennui ; 
And the morning's rosiest sunbeams. 
Change to twilight's shadowy sea. 

Over life the shades fall softly, 
Youth is past, and life's decay 
Softly glides within our vision, 
As the twilight ends the day." 

Note. — This is not a literal translation but merely suggested 
to me by the original poem. 



Wisdom 



An Eastern Sage once told this truth to me : 
There is no royal road to Wisdom's gate. 
The road thereto is by a stony path, 
And strewn with thorns and brambles, to deter, 
The seeker after truth. 

Knowledge is gained but by most patient work, 

Denial of all but the goal in sight ; 

The road is all the same to king or slave. 

Life is the same, for really Truth is life. 

The sorrows of the king 

Are e'en the same as of the serf, 

For sorrow, pain and death 

Come to us all, regardless of our rank. 



The Epitaph of a Parisienne 

Behold my epitaph, 

I was — and now am not ! 

The brightest star grown dim, 
Is soon forgot. 

INIy mortal frame was brave, 

And fair to see. 
From what I can become, 

All men would flee ! 

The grave is cold and deep. 

It holds me fast ; 
Those bitter tears you weep, 

Will soon be past ! 



Upward 



Yet striving upward, 

Ever toward the Light; 
Through countless ages, 

Sure as arrow in flight. 

Onward and upward 
Even to the stars; 
And when at last 
Perfection gained ; we find 

That riddle of existence, 

Which we thought 

More puzzling than that of the Sphinx of old. 

Most simple — with a grand simplicity. 

So let us live our life out 

Day by day, 

Thinking no evil, striving to do good; 

Nor dreading Death, 

For Death is naught but Life, 

A mere transition from this mortal state 

To perfect joy— and Immortality. 



The Conqueror 

Oh, dearest hope of all, 
That we may die, 
Unterrified ! 

That as Death's shadow falls — 

Athwart our walls, 

"We greet him with a smile ! 

Oh, Conqueror, grim and pale, 
Who rideth fast 
We give to thee ''All hail!" 
And yield at last. 

Grant me, oh, Conqueror, grace- 

A little space 

Ere I be gone 

To join the innumerable throng 

Of shadows, which have been 

The denizens of the ages. 

But the truce past, 
Beneath thy feet 
My conquered sword I cast; 
And to thy mighty majesty 
I bow at last! 



44 



Sic Transit Gloria Mundi" 

This grisly object, lying cold and dead 

Before me, 

Scarce can lift its massive head ; 

And glancing bravely forth, 

As if in life, 

Gaze on his hnmble subjects neath the throne. 

His day over, that brief span of life 

Wherein he walked; 

Chief actor On the stage, 

Nor trembled with the fear of adverse frowns. 

So sure he was of his own majesty. 

His day is over, and this heap of clay 

Which lies before me, is all that is left 

Of puissant Ruler — and most mighty King. 

And .here beside him are his robes of state. 

The orb, the sceptre, and the diadem. 

A mass of gold and jewels ; 

Not less bright 

Because they glitter at a dead man's side. 

And faintly from without 
I hear a voice, crying, 
The King is dead ! 
Long live tlio Kinii'! 



The Haunted House 

From sill to roof -tree, 'tis a haunted house ; 

Tainted with poisonous vapors, 

Which do lurk 

In every corner — 

And at last do change themselves 

To subtle shapes — and dim and shadowy forms 

Of evil things — the echoes of past deeds, 

Which being evil, shun the light of day. 

On yonder mouldering rafter 

Clings a bat^ 

Fit emblem of the charnel house — and death ; 

Within the narrow circle of its wings 

I seem to see a vision of the tomb. 

A vast and horrid concourse of the dead, 
A pit, wherein are only bones and skulls, 
Whose eyeless sockets ever seem to gaze 
With grim unending wonder at the world. 

And yonder crumbling stair case 

Seems to creak 

Beneath the footfall of those unseen ones, 

Whose restless forms no marble tomb can hold. 

Beware, the house that's haunted! 
For 'tis said — 

On old authority, that evil comes 
To him who seeks to penetrate 
Beyond that fast closed portal 
Set between two worlds. 



The Witch's Ring 

Bone of dog, 

And blood of wolf; 

Hair of fox 

And serpent's tooth. 

Bones from ancient graveyards dank, 
Toadlets from the mossy bank ; 
To the steaming cauldron bring, 
There to form the witch 's ring. 

The witch's ring 

Has power dread — 
To blast the living, 

Or raise the dead. 

And the farmers' lads 

And the shepherds bring 
Weird, gruesome tales 

Of the witch 's ring. 

'Tis not of gold or jewels, 

Instead it 's all agleam with a fiery red 
And the one who finds it 

Had better be dead ! 

Gleaming and glowing, 

Uncanny thing ! 
A fatal charm 

Hath the witch's ring 



Hoiger Danske 

(From the Danish Legend), 

Deep in the heart of a mountain, 
In a land of frost and snow ; 

There's a cavern, vast and gloomy, 
Where the bravest dare not go. 

For seated at a table, 

In the midst of the cavern vast ; 
Is a mighty King of Denmark, 

Who awaits a trumpet blast. 

Sleeping, his dreams can tell him, 
Of his country's weal or woe; 

Yet his sleep shall not be broken, 
Till there comes a worthy foe. 

Then as the trumpet echoes. 

From the turrets of Kronenburg; 

And the Danish hearts remember 
The fate of the Danebrog. 

Hoiger Danske 's dreams are ended, 
And he grasps in his mailed hand 

His mighty sword of battle, 

Which shall save his native land. 

Whenever the danger calls him, 

And he hears the trumpet blast, 

Hoiger Danske then will awaken. 
And leave his dreams at last. 



The Blood-Stained Hand 

Wilhelm of Hohenzollern, 

High on your lonely throne ; 

How can you dare to offer, 

That blood-stained hand you own? 

How can you dare to face us? 
Face us, your fellow men; 
Whom your edict has caused to perish, 
In thousands and millions ten. 

The millions whose hearts are broken, 
As well as the millions slain ; 

And the horrors wrought for Kultur, 
Sprang from your heart and brain. 

Though aeons of time roll onward, 
Nothing can cleanse your soul, 

Nor whiten your blood-stained fingers, 

That failed ere they clutched their goal. 



Victory 



Like the waves of a mighty ocean, 
Onward our troops shall roll ; 

Like a mighty torrent engulfing, 
The foe who contests our goal. 

Our goal is not gold nor glory, 

Nor power, nor pomp, nor throne ; 

But the rights of our fellow beings, 
To the safety of hearth and home. 

Then let the torrent flow onward, 
And further and further still ; 

Till the whole wide universe answers. 
The voice of the Almighty will. 



44 



The Twilight of an Old House" 



The house had long since passed the meridian of its glory ; 
and now basked in the after-glow of its former magnificence. 
The' broad avenue of century-old oaks which gave the place 
its name of "Les Chenes Verts" had many gaps in its ranks 
where the wind had wrought havoc, or where someone in need 
of firewood had felled one of the mighty trees. 

By reason of a crevasse, the once fair acres of cane had 
long since returned to the original swamp ; and where the 
field hands, singing their weird African melodies, had cut the 
ripe canes in the Autumn, the bull-frog perched royallj^ upon 
a bit of cypress stump, croaked forth his harsh voiced edicts 
to his tribe in the pools below. 

The house itself had been stoutly built, and after a long 
life, and even three decades of neglect, still remained, planted 
firmly on its brick foundation-pillars, though the wide gal- 
leries sagged badly in places, and most of the shutters flapped 
dizzily on one hinge. 

Only one wing was inhabited, the rest given over to be the 
home of bats and owls. This right wing had formerly been 
the ball-room, a wonder in its day, when a great artist came 
out from Paris to cover its ceilings with frescoes of rose-gar- 
landed nymphs and dancing figures, scarcely veiled beneath 
diaphonous drapery. The superb mirrors, which were set in 
the walls and whose iiilded tops ended only with the ceiling, 
were cracked their entire length. The Italian family who made 
their home in the deserted place, were mostly employed at the 
sugar-house, on the neighboring plantation, and they selected 
the ball-room because it still had a few panes of glass re- 
maining unbroken in its windows, and in Summer was cool 
even on the hottest day. The smoke of the charcoal brazier, 
on which they did their cooking, had almost obliterated the 
frescoes, and only the outlines of a graceful dancing figure, 
or the beauty of a gay laughing nymph, remained. In Winter 
the gaps in the windows were stopped with pieces of old 
quilts, or bundles of rags. Truly the old ball-room had lost 
all traces of its former self. During the war the owner of the 
house had been killed, and his son, "Marse Charle," as the 
negroes called him, had inherited in his turn. 



Charles Levoisier was a dashing, handsome Creole. In the 
old days he, like his father before him, had staked vast sums 
on the turn of a card. 

One night in the Cafe d 'Orleans, he had been losing steadily, 
but still with the dogged enthusiasm of the born gambler, 
played on trusting that luck would turn. 

But fate was against him! At last he rose, and bowing to 
his opponents with inimitable grace, said : ' ' Messieurs, as a last 
stake I offer you the plantation of ' ' Les Chenes Verts. ' ' You all 
know it, since it has belonged to my family for generations. 
Gentlemen, let us begin another game." 

He staked and lost. 

Les Chenes Verts passed into other hands, but the winner 
did not keep it long, for the next year he was shot dead in 
a duel. 

Gradually the place became of doubtful value. Mortgages 
and taxes accumulated on it, a crevasse came and destroyed 
the cane fields, and inevitable msifortune seemed to befall the 
successive owners. It became practically abandoned and given 
over to migratory families of Italians at work on the nearby 
plantations. Charles Levoisier and his famous stake were alike 
forgotten by the world. He might be dead? Who could say? 
But the worhl forgot and he disappeared among the vast num- 
bers of the poor and obscure. 

The last rays of the setting sun illumined the pillars and 
archways of the old house. The wide galleries seemed to 
stretch forth welcoming arms. They seemed to say, ''Return 
my children, my roof which sheltered your babyhood shall 
claim you in your declining years as well.'' 

Along the avenue, beneath the oaks a man dragged him- 
self wearily onward. A poor tramp, worn and footsore, his 
dulled brain retained but one impression, to return and rest 
beneath a familiar roof-tree. 

The shadows beneath the oaks grew deeper. The man gained 
the safety of the old mansion and pillowing his head on the 
sill of the great doorway, fell peacefully asleep. 

Next day a cart bearing a rude coffin turned out of the 
avenue of *'Les Chenes Verts" and jolted unevenly over the 
dusty road leading to tlie Potter's Field. Charles Levoisier had 
indeed gone home. 



44 



The Crucifix of Cellini" 



There is an indescribable charm in the old City of New 
Orleans, the quaint, narrow streets of the older portion of the 
town, the tall and stately houses once the homes of a genera- 
tion now dust, the soft southern breeze just stirring the great 
leaves of the iBanana trees in the old court-yards and over all 
the impression of a peaceful and a dreamlike decay. 

One day, passing through the Rue Royale (to give it its 
former name), I came upon a tiny shop crowded between two 
stately old buildings, and attracted by a beautiful Ivory Cruci- 
fix in the window, I entered to inquire the price. The pro- 
prietor, an old Creole, was most amiable, and was most anxious 
to sell the cross to Madame. "But the price, ah, that was in- 
deed high. But examine the workmanship of it. The Christus 
was a veritable gem and reputed to be the work of a pupil of 
Cellini, or may be from the hands of the great artist himself. 
And the price ? Well it was fifty dollars. ' ' Utterly disgusted 
by his improbable story of Cellini, and amazed at the cost of 
the crucifix, I turned to go, reflecting that all curio-dealers 
were Jews, in fact, if not in name, when a second glance at 
the object of my admiration stayed my steps; there was cer- 
tainly something wonderfully fine and impressive about it, 
the eyes of the dying Savoir seemed to follow mine, there was 
something of the same expression of joy mingled with unutter- 
able pain which one sees in Guido's wonderful altar-piece at 
Rome. Another look and my mind was made up; the price was 
exorbitant, and the tale of its possible maker practically im- 
possible, since all the works of Cellini have long since been 
safely housed in the greatest museums in Europe, and yet — in 
any event I must have it ; I was rich and amply able to afford 
any caprice, however expensive, and in a few moments I left 
the shop carrying the crucifix, safely wrapped, in my hands. 

Not caring for the common-place and conventional com- 
forts of hotel life, I had chosen a quaint old suite of rooms in 
the French quarter, aiid with my Italian maid, Rosina, who had 
been with me in the years spent in Italy and who in spite of 
her name, suggestive of a giddy and frivolous young person, 
is a staid old creature enough, lived a quiet, student's life, away 
from the noise and bustle of the American part of the city. 



Rosina opened the door of my little salon and hastening to 
take the chicifix from me, asked if she should place the parcel 
in my own room. ' ' No, unfasten it here and then I will decide 
where it shall be placed," I replied. When the maid at last 
succeeded in undoing the wrappings with which the dealer had 
enveloped it, she gave a sudden start of terror, and muttering 
"Santissima Madonna," hastily crossed herself. "Signorina mia. 
whatever made you buy such a dreadful crucifix, the very sight 
of it makes me shiver, and surely there is something terrible 
about it." "Nonsense Rosina, a good Catholic like yourself 
should not speak so, but if you fear it so much, hand it to me 
and I will hang it in my bedroom above the prie-dieu." After 
seeing it put in its place in my bedroom, I thought no more 
a])Out it, except to wonder at the strange thrill which passed 
over me as my hand touched it ; surely I was mistaken, and yet 
it seemed as though the ivory of the cross was burning hot, 
and the face of the Christ was as of one in mortal agony. 

That evening I was occupied in my studies, for T was then 
completing some notes on Italian Art which were soon to be 
published, and it was past midnight when I was at length ready 
to sleep. On entering my bedroom I found the moonlight 
streaming through the large old-fashioned windows, its silvery 
light seemingly centered on the crucifix above the carved ma- 
hogany prie-dieu by the side of my bed, and again I felt that 
peculiar thrill, almost a shiver of nervous apprehension, pass 
over me, but calling my better reasoning to my aid, I roundly 
lectured myself for reading so late at night that the least 
thing would startle my excited nerves, and hastily made ready 
for bed trusting that sleep would soon restore my usual com- 
monsense and courage. 

Hardly had my head touched the pillow when I fell asleep ; 
and then I knew no more when I awoke with a start and a 
feeling as of the presence of someone in the i-oom. Springin^r 
from bed, I awoke to fuller consciousness and saw that T was 
no longer in my bedroom in X Street, but in a room which 
was utterly new to me. Before me stood a huge carved bed- 
stead, and tossing wildly to and fro among its soft white cover- 
ings was a beautiful young girl. Wonderful dark eyes, blazing 
with fever, lighted up a face of glorious beauty and showing 
the unmistakable stamp of aristocratic Spanish blood. luieel- 
ing at her side was a ir.an. young, yet with such a look of 



anguish in his eyes, that it blotted out all else ; youth, and all 
the charm of his handsome face, leaving only that look of 
awful suffering and torturing grief. In his hands, raised before 
the eyes of the dying woman, he held an ivory crucifix. As I 
watched, the girl suddenly sat upright; and gazing with awe- 
struck eyes at the sculptured face of the Savior, murmured, 
"Sanctu Jesu, Ora pro nobis!" and fell back into the arms of 
her companion — dead ! 

For a moment there was a complete silence, broken only by 
the sobs of the man ; and then with a farewell glance at the 
dead beside him, clasping the crucifix to his breast, he seized 
a dagger from a table near him and plunged it into his heart. 
One awful shriek, coming from I know not where, and then 
silence, awful and unbroken. 

The scene which had been so vividly before me in all its 
tragedy faded, and 1 found myself alone in the grey dawn, 
amid all the familiar surroundings of my own room. Sleep 
was no longer possible, so I rose and lighted a lamp, determined 
to wait for day, and then to lose no time in returning to the 
curio-dealer and trying to solve the mystery of the dreadful 
apparition I had witnessed. 

By eight I was enroute to the old Creole's shop, and my 
first glance at his face showed me that he surmised ray errand 
there and anticipated the questions about to be asked. 
"Madame would speak to me of her purchase of yesterday, 
would question me as to the history of the crucifix? It is as 
I feared, and yet oMadame seemed so sensible, so practical, that 
I had hoped she would not see it as the others did." "You mis- 
erable man ! What do you mean ? Did you then rob a grave 
to satisfy your greed for money, and is that the cause of the 
apparition? Did you wrest it from the dead, stiffened fingers 
of some priest or nun ? " I demanded indignantly. ' ' Madame, 
no! A thousand times no! I rob a grave? I, Felix Durand, 
never! But I shall tell Madame all I know and then she can 
judge if I speak the truth, or if I have done wrong. Years 
ago, in '59, the fever was raging here in New Orleans, and the 
people were dying by the hundreds ; all who could do so, fled 
from the city, except those who from a spirit of self-confidence 
or l)ravado, and the poorest classes who could not go, remained. 
I was then living further down on a street nearer the river, 
in a large stone house, and doing a thriving business with a 



furniture shop on the ground floor and renting the rooms above 
to several families who were only too glad to pay a good price 
for rooms in the comfortable old house. I had reserved only 
a tiny room back of the shop for myself, but when the fever 
broke out I was left with the whole house empty, as the tenants 
fled in terror at the first news of the pestilence. One day, 
shortly after the fever appeared in the city, a young man en- 
tered the shop and asked to see the rooms which a card in the 
window advertised as to let. He soon selected the cheapest 
ones opening to the rear of the court-yard, and that afternoon 
he and his young wife took possession of their apartment. They 
were an unusually handsome couple, both very young and both 
possessing a sombre Spanish beauty. They spoke French when 
talking with me, but the name they gave, "Sanchez," was cer- 
tainly not French, but Spanish. 

Day by day the fever raged and the city was as a city of 
the dead, the streets deserted, save for an occasional passing 
of a cart bearing a coffin, a few mourners following on foot. 
All trade was paralyzed, and I often wondered if my new 
lodgers would pay me at the end of the month ; but on the day 
that the money was due, Sanchez gave me the sum in gold. 
Where he obtained it or how, I do not know, but it was no 
affair of mine, and so long as he paid I was amply satisfied. 

The second month had almost passed and I was wondering 
when the fever would begin to abate, for though T had had it 
years before and consequently had no personal fear, yet for 
the sake of my trade I had many times made offerings at the 
Cathedral with the prayer that the pestilence might speedily 
cease, before I was utterly ruined. 

Pondering gloomingly on the prospect, T was startled by a 
voice calling my name, and recognizing it as that of Sanchez, 
I rushed up the stairway and along the gallery above the 
(ourt-yard to his rooms. "Monsieur, pardon me for disturbinjx 
you," he began with stately courtesy, and then forgetting all 
but his anxiety, he burst out, "You have seen the fever, you 
can recognize its symptoms, come and tell me if she has it." 
At the word "fever" I started back in momentary dismay, and 
then remembering that to me it would be harmless, I followed him 
into the room. There on the great bed, which was one of the 
few pieces of furniture they had brought with them, lay his 
wife, CAndently in the last stages of the fever, delirious and quite 



unconscious of our presence, her lovely face terribly altered 
and her great black eyes gleaming with the frenzy of the de- 
lirium. What induced him to keep her illness a secret, I can- 
not tell, except that he may have feared that I would send for 
the authorities and have her taken away at once, but in any 
event he had kept his secret well and now all the physicians in 
the city could not have saved her. 

Sanchez's eyes were fixed anxiously on my face and he read 
there the verdict of certain death. Before I could speak he 
thrust me out of the room and locked the door. I waited ir- 
resolutely on the gallery, trying to decide what to do, when I 
heard a sudden cry of agony and then all was still. 

I broke open the door, for I was a strong man then, and not 
bent as I am now, and there before me lay the dead clasped in 
each other's arms, — she had evidently died of the fever at the mo- 
ment when Sanchez pushed me from the room, but the husband 
was bleeding from the wound of a dagger, which he had plunged 
into his breast. The crucifix he held with his left hand and 
the ivory of the cross was stained with his blood. 

I sent for the police, and they took charge of the dead, a 
thorough search failed to reveal any means of identification 
among their effects, except a tiny prayer l)ook, black with age, 
printed in Spanish and with the name "Ramon" pencilled on 
the fly leaf. Whether their name was really Sanchez was 
always a matter of conjecture and never a certainty. As they 
owed me nearly a month 's rent, their furniture was sold to pay 
my bill and the expenses of their burial. The crucifix was un- 
clasped from the fingers of the dead man and I kept it because 
of its singular beauty and workmanship. I had it in the sliop 
for a while, but the sight of it gave me a feeling of terror, and 
at last I sold it to Monsieur Maurice, the famous Parisian Art 
Amateur, who professes to recognize it as a veritable Cellini; 
but he returned in a week and asked such pointed questions 
that I was glad enough to give him back its price, large as it 
was, and take it again, to avoid getting into difficulties, and 
since then I have made various attempts to sell it, always with 
the same result. And now what do you wish, Madame? And do 
you think I did wrong in keeping the crucifix?" "You miser- 
al)le Shylock," I answered. "You know only too well your sin and 
its result. I will keep the cross and give it to some Chapel, where 
maybe the blessings of tlie priest may exorcise the awful spirits 



conjured by its presence." I kept my word, and today the 
crucifix is treasured in the Sacristy of a Convent near Florence, 
where it was recognized as a veritable work of Cellini. How it 
came to America, I do not know, I only know the verdict of 
the great artists who have seen it and pronounced it to be 
from the hands of the great Florentine. 



"The Twelfth of August" 

It was the twelfth of August and the height of the brief 
Mackinac Summer. The woods were in the full glory of their 
foliage ; and here and there, where the pines and birch trees 
grew less thickly, were quantities of raspberries and an oc- 
casional wild strawberry hidden beneath the shade of a mossy 
log. 

■ Below, near the beach, all was activity. The days of the 
American Fur Company had not yet begun, but the traffic 
in pelts of its predecessor, the Hudson Bay Company, was 
at its highest point, and the little town nestling in the hollows 
below Fort Michilimackinac, had roused itself from its winter 
quiet and presented a scene of bustling energy. Mingling with 
the village people and soldiers from the Fort were a motley 
assemblage of Indians, Coureur de Bois, and innumerable half- 
breeds; who presented a curious blending of the volatile French 
nature mixed with the morose dignity of the Indian. 

Conspicuous among the crowd was a young Frenchman. 
Baptiste Lemoine. He was indeed a handsome man, with 
strong, shapely limbs, and vivacious black eyes, whose glance 
was at once amiable and penetrating. He was evidently a 
favorite with the women, who gave him shy glances of ad- 
raira4;ion as their gaze travelled slowly upward from the 
smooth brown column of his throat, rising from above the 
neck of his hunting shirt, to the curly black hea*d, topped by 
a buckskin cap, where a black heron's feather waved proudly. 
The heron's feather was the much prized emblem of the leader 
of a Brigade, as a company of men who manned the boats were 
called. The one, who, chosen by his comrades, and excelling 
in his skill in forest or canoe : was entitled to wear the heron 's 



feather; a. decoration as eagerlj' sought for and as highly 
prized as any conferred in other lands hy King or Nation. 
To Baptiste success was doubly sweet. For success, and suc- 
cess alone, was certain to win the heart of Madeline Lapine. 

The girl's beauty was celebrated in Mackinac and over at 
St. Ignace, and even in the Huron villages there were tales of 
the lovely "white squaw." Therefore, to Baptiste success was 
indeed precious. He had, however, one dangerous rival, An- 
toine Moreau.. Outwardly Antoine was as French as Baptiste, 
but beneath a thin veneer of semi-civilization lay the Indian 
nature in all its barbaric strength. 

Antoine 's life had been spent among the other half-breeds 
and French in the nearby settlements, but the same nature 
which governed his ancestors in the Huron lodges, dwelt, 
however dormant, in his breast. No finer trapper existed than 
Antoine, and no firmer hand ever guided a boat through the 
varied channels of those inland seas, but in spite of this he 
had failed to gain the leadership of his Brigade, and the heron's 
plume, which in former years had been his, now waved jaunt- 
ily above the black curls of his rival. 

]\Ioreau stalked moodily through the village street ponder- 
ing gloomily on his rival's chances of success. Madeline, like 
the true coquette she was, had played off her lovers against 
each other with consummate skill. But when the boats had 
left Mackinac at the beginning of the season it had been to 
Antoine that the last whispered word had been given, and to 
him alone that her eyes turned as the boats headed toward 
the Straits. Moreau 's feet instinctively sought the pathway 
leading to the other side of the Island, where Madeline lived. 

The twilight was already near at hand, and in the dense 
growth of pines and arbor-vitae it was already dark. 

The half-breed strode quickly on, still pondering moodily. 
Suddenly the light grew stronger as he passed a clearing, and 
something wheeling in dizzy circles about his head arojiised 
him. It was a bat, wheeling and circling uncannily about him. 
He remembered the old French proverb which says, "Death 
hovers within the circle of the bat's wings." His super- 
stitious Indian mind was startled. Just then the crackling of 
the underbrush warned him that he was not alone. From an- 
other path emerged Baptiste, humming a gay little French 
chanson. "Greeting to ynu, mon comarade." he called, gaily, 



seeing Moreau. "Merci' M'sieu," responded the other cyni- 
cally. ''M'sieu, indeed," replied Baptiste, "no more M'sieu 
than yourself, mon comarade, we are all equals here at Mack- 
inac." The heron's feather waved jauntily as he spoke, and 
the sight of it maddened the half-breed. His long sinewy 
fingers played nervously with the hunting knife thrust through 
his belt, but he controlled his anger. Lemoine meanwhile was 
entirely unconscious of the other's feelings. 

"It appears that we are bound on the same errand, eh 
Antoine? The face of the fair Madelaine has captured us 
both n'est ce pas, mon Ami?" 

Moreau growled a reply, and plunged on through the woods 
in silence. Baptiste followed, laughing at the half-breed's 
moodiness. 

Before them lay a slight hollow and at its edge a dull 
red glow showed against the dark background of the forest. 
It was the lime-kiln, built some decades before, when the more 
primitive methods used failed to supply the needs of the island. 
Massive walls built of granite boulders enclosed a mass of 
crushed and powdered stone which gradually became calcined 
in the intense heat. 

The Frenchman and half-breed both halted at the edge 
of the pit and watched in silence the changing hues of the 
great mass before them. A bat, dazzled by the light, flew past 
^loreau. Again the bat! The emblem of death! A sudden 
murderous impulse flashed through his brain. He turned, and 
grasping the Frenchman around the waist tried to hurl him 
into the pit. But Baptiste, though taken unawares, was no 
mean antagonist, and his lithe sinewy form was difficult to 
grasp. For a moment they struggled to and fro, battling 
fiercely for every inch of foothold ; until the half-breed putting 
forth all his great strength in one mighty impulse, threw the 
other in the very center of the glowing furnace. One awful 
moan came from the depths beneath, and then silence, terrible 
in its intensity. 

Moreau gave one glance at the dreadful grave of his rival 
and then sped toward a path along the cliff beneath which he 
knew a canoe was beached. He ran breathlessly along the 
trail, but there was no pursuer — he was alone in the silent 
forest. An owl hooted dismally, and the half-breed gave a 
cry of terror for it seemed the voice of a tormented spirit. 



// 



His foot slipped on the polished rock, worn smooth by the 
waves in bygone ages, down, down he went, his body rebound- 
ing from rock to rock, until at last it reached the surface of 
the lake beneath. The moon rising behind the pines gleamed 
fitfully on the dead face as it rose and fell with the waves 
dashing in the tiny harbor. 

Note. — An old lime-kiln really exists on the island in the heart 
of the forest, and the heron's plume is substantially a fact. 



